


January

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Cold, Gen, POV Second Person, Reapings, Snow, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 21:03:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3183059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solo reaps - who needs them? Certainly not you, certainly not in this weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	January

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies for the second person. You are not you, the reader. You are you, Grell Sutcliff.

White. That's all you can see, at first, before your senses have a chance to adapt to the sudden change in scene. The harsh brilliance of your surroundings dims a little as your eyes adjust and the light recedes, becoming softer and muted.

It is snowing in the mortal world.

Of course, you knew this – it has been snowing all day in your own realm, and the weather never differs drastically between the two. But here it is thicker, less like ice and more like fragments of cloud, falling as though some detached deity wishes to smother the Earth like an unwanted child in its cot. The sky above mirrors the ground below, or at least what is visible of it – they form two nigh identical solid banks of untouched, rolling blue-grey. Impervious and strangely unreal, they manage to look almost as though they have no real physicality. The depth and distance of both is indeterminable and you try not to dwell on it.

And _hell_ is it cold. Cold is an understatement. You are already regretting not trading in your (very stylish, admittedly, but as you are unlikely to run into anyone today they don't serve much point) shoes for a pair of regulated work boots more suited to this weather. Shivering slightly, you hoist your thin coat up properly over your shoulders and button it completely as you begin to walk. It provides the only splash of bright colour in this bleached landscape, vivid as fresh blood and about as conspicuous, and you wonder if for once you should have endeavoured to stand out _less_.

There is no noise other than the steady antagonistic rhythm of your own feet sinking though the crust of the snow; no movement other than the dancing flurries in the air. They thin out and then cease abruptly as you enter the cover of the woodland's first dark trees, whose branches dilute the already sparse amount of sunlight that struggles down through the suffocating clouds above.

 _Creepy_ is a word that you feel is fully justified to describe this copse, with its towering, lifeless trees and ground swathed in grey. You are heavily armed and almost certainly the most dangerous creature for miles around, yet the dead silence and desolate scene creates an unnerving sense of hushed, bored anticipation for the moment that you, as an intruder on this silence and breathing creature where there should be none, cease to be. The cold is not a rational killer, a cause of vicious death – it is a mere force of nature, prevailing over those living beings that struggle below its disinterested gaze.

You take a moment to wipe the spatters of precipitation from your glasses before glancing down at the ground again - at the snaking tail of sunken footsteps you're following, which have already been half buried in further fall. One pair of human feet, large and heavy, heading into the forest. What was the man thinking? It is already getting dark. Or at least, you think it's getting dark. To be honest, the world around you is almost monochromatic already, painted in dull white and stark black – perhaps the day had been no lighter before.

Trudging after the footsteps and taking care not to touch them – it is bad luck to touch marks made by the newly (or soon to be, you suppose, he's not due to die until five past five) dead – you feel your extremities beginning to chill and take a moment to actively resent being sent out on this reap. It's remarkably easy to decide that as soon as you get back you are going to stick your frozen hands down William's neck. Just to make sure, as any good subordinate would, that he knows exactly what the conditions are like out here. Then, once you escape the office, you'll try and find a pub with a warm fire to pass out in front of. Three pairs of socks were not enough. Your digits feel as though they shall shatter if you try to draw your scythe, regardless of the meagre protection offered by your gloves.

These thoughts seem to echo too loudly around the leering trees and huddled bushes that squat at the sides of the... road? Dirt track? You have no idea what you're standing on. The snow is far too thick to tell.

Things begin to drip, the ice from the edges of high branches slipping and landing on the ground around you with horrific, disorienting _spat_ s. Not even _splat_ s – irregular and off-puttingly solid noises that too often sound like hidden movements, subtle footsteps. You try to walk faster and slip once, twice against a shallow slope, your foot cutting though the surface of the ice to leave a tortured brown gash showing up accusingly against the purity around it.

Mud, wet rather than frozen. As if this job has to go to the furthest lengths possible to make things unpleasant. The man must have left the beaten track at some point, meandering off into the trees for some reason of his own. You wonder if he knew where he was going. You wonder if he is aware by now, wherever he is, that he is going to die.

Whoever dubbed December as deepest winter was an idiot. January is when the storms come, and when the weather that's supposed to be idyllic kills. January is the month of new beginnings and clean slates and an apparent universal relaxation of guard on the weather front. Christmas is over, kids, it's spring now so it's all flowers and sunshine. Don't worry about the cold. _Every single year_.

You only realize how dark it's become when you stumble over an unseen branch lying at an angle across the path, and find yourself sprawled in the deceptive softness of the ice. It seems to burn your body through your clothes and clings to everything it touches, hobbling your attempts to rise quickly. Suddenly the reminder of the time limit snaps into place – less than ten minutes to go before the soul is due to be lost – and you struggle upwards, pausing to brush as much snow from your person as you can before moving on.

Every time you move your head you mistake a tree for a blurred figure; every time you blink you wish you couldn't imagine shapes darting just out of sight. It (for anything out there is surely a single malevolent entity) seem to be watching, waiting, as though you are the one who is dying and it the silent reaper, waiting quietly for you to give up. Lurking on the edges of perception, drawing you in, closer, closer. There is no-one there.

You have never feared the dark, but this is not dark – this is the deceptive half-light that leads you to hold unmerited trust in your eyes, that muffles sound and exaggerates movement; that fails to distinguish artifice from reality. Snow begins to fall again, with a different consistency; thick, cloying clumps that cloud your vision and melt in your hair.

The footprints are still visible, just. Shallower now, filling in fast, not deep enough to stand out in the dying light. You wonder if falling again would prove fatal, or just highly unpleasant.

But there, ahead – a ragged scar across the otherwise flawless surface. A minor mistake, one small misstep, a long, unfortunate skid leading to a rather more unfortunate stop half way down the harmless looking slope. The body lies beside a tree, spread-eagled, one leg bent over itself in a tangled grey mess.

You follow it carefully down, picking the places you tread with care, although still not managing to stay entirely stable. A thin blanket has already shrouded the man, and for a moment you don't realize that he's still breathing – ragged, stuttery breaths, but breaths nonetheless. You almost sigh in relief.

A noise behind you. A deliberate messy crunch of something large moving forward, accompanied by a low, long growl that promises teeth and anger and pain...

Suddenly all the trees have eyes, all the creeping shadows are unholy spectators to a ghastly and unanticipated attack. You turn with a speed that would shock any mortal, scythe in hand, and stop.

The huge black dog is not a threat. The leash around its neck drags in the snow, and its eyes say fear, not attack. Although you have never been keen on dogs, they do not often have anywhere near enough perception to see a reaper – the way this one is moving its head blindly, inhaling the air, is testimony enough to that.

You exhale, louder than intended, and the man stirrs from his hypothermic and pain laced unconsciousness.

Can he see you? Has he passed from the point of understanding to the deeper stages of delirium? “Please,” he whispers, voice hoarse, almost gone. “Thank God... Help me.”

You hope that that was a 'Thank God' in the sense of 'Thank God this is almost over', which you wholeheartedly agree with, rather than 'Thank God someone's come to rescue me'. And it _is_ almost over. You take a moment to check the book – yes, here he is. One Edward Johnston, employed as a farmhand by the earl that owns this tree-ridden estate, no family, few friends. Walks the dogs, there you go. Due to die from hypothermia and shock in three... Two... One...

It is neither a dramatic nor an interesting death, and you possibly didn't need to slam your scythe down with so much force or let the reels of his life clatter past so quickly, but you are cold and tired and can barely see through the grey, grey, grey that pervades the evening. His life proves as boring as his demise. The soul cuts off abruptly and you haul the scythe out of his chest, swinging it back to let it hang by your side. The dog backs away, whimpering, and disappears into the darkness.

“Cause of death,” you say aloud, because it is principle. “Bad weather. On this, the 9th of January, 1890.”

Stamp the book, wipe your glasses, prepare to leave. Just another worthless soul, lost to the night.

“No further remarks.”

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what the weather's like at the moment.
> 
> I can write in non-second person, I swear. But this was more setting-y type writing practice than character-y type writing practice (sorry, Grell) and writing first person for characters that aren't my own feels cocky and writing third person would possibly take away from the scene slightly? Maybe? Not sure.
> 
> Crit would be really, really appreciated.


End file.
